Just what you want: A ball of fur

First of all, my friends, it’s kitten season. Frequent reader Naomi Horton over at Toni’s Kitty Rescue in San Francisco reminded me that cats have been busy over the winter, and the first batches of kittens have already arrived at shelters everywhere.

Kittens! They’re cute, they’re cuddly, they romp around the floor and turn somersaults, they go to sleep instantly in unusual and photogenic places. If you have kids — well, there’s nothing like a kitten. Old people like them, too, because kittens.

You can even foster them. No permanent commitment required, although you may be tempted. Also available at low cost: cats. Yup, the rat-catching, fireside-sitting, food-demanding animals once worshiped by the ancient Egyptians. Still there, waiting just for you.

OK, probably not just for you. But they are waiting for someone with a few throw pillows and a commitment to kibble. In time, they’ll grow to like you, if “like” is the word I mean.

And what other message are these kittens sending us? Spay or neuter your cats, please. Kittens that go to shelters often wind up dead. I know that’s a very uncomfortable truth, but it’s reality. Too many cats, not enough people. It would be great to cut down on the populations of both, but I suspect it would be politically prudent to start with the cats.

Neutering young men would probably not be that bad an idea, either. I know, icky eugenics issues; still.

But what of cats on the home front? Well, Pancho has a new friend, or whatever it is that cats get. He has another cat that he doesn’t hiss at. Indeed, he will occasionally go nose to nose with him for a mutual sniffing battle. That will so tire him out that he’ll go away and lie elsewhere, facing the other way, as if the whole thing never happened.

I’ve had dates like that.

The new friend is named Berkie. He’s an orange tom, much like Pancho but way bigger. At first glance, he’s a classic fat cat, but just pick him up and you’ll be disabused of that notion. He’s solid muscle through the middle; his shoulders feel as though he’s been lifting weights.

He’s fearsome looking, but he’s not all that aggressive. He’s like Pancho: When squirrels or possums come through, he’s all “welcome to my little patch of heaven; partake, partake.”

Berkie lives next door. According to his owner, Berkie pees in the house a lot, and thus has been banished outdoors for much of the time. So he sits on our back deck and often greets Pancho when they meet. This meeting, or perhaps “meeting,” involves a cocked eyebrow or its feline equivalent. Pancho gives a small head shake in return, and it’s as if they had a conversation.

Sometimes they romp in the garden, playing in a way that is, candidly, destructive of their inherent dignity. Skittering up the path and failing to make a sharp left turn and recovering only long enough to pretend they meant to do it; hardly ambassador-class deportment.

Then they stop, lash their tails, and wash. “When in doubt, wash” — it’s the motto of cats everywhere.

Berkie talks a lot, a long loud wail. At first I thought he was in pain; the yowl was that convincing. Then I became convinced that he was hungry, and somehow adequate care had not been taken to feed him. But then I realized: No, he pretty much makes that noise all the time.

He is constantly looking for ways to come into the house. If we leave the door open a crack, he will paw it open just enough to let his wide body get through. We don’t want him to do it, because peeing. He may reflexively mark his territory and send mixed messages to Pancho.

Plus, Berkie will eat whatever food is on offer. He does not appear to be a picky eater.

We chase him around the house — literally. Our house is basically a circle, so it’s possible to do a farcical carousel-like thing. Sometimes he seems invigorated by the chase; despite his bulk, he moves quickly. Then someone bangs his ankle on a chair, and it’s not the cat.

But then he’ll leave and go sit on the back deck again, yowling pitifully. He somehow manages to make his eyes seem large, so he’s staring at you like a tear-stained Keane painting, and you must harden your heart. Then Pancho joins him, and they bump noses again, and the great cycle of life starts over.

Eventually Pancho comes in, checks all his spots, reconciles himself to the presence of Berkie, takes a nap somewhere. Nothing interferes with his nap schedule, not even his new friend apparently in serious pain.

Then Berkie gets tired of yowling and wanders into the garden, and the house is still again.

The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, then quietly marched off jcarroll@sfchronicle.com.

Jon Carroll has been a San Francisco Chronicle columnist for 35 years. Before that he was a magazine editor. He's won awards doing both things. He writes about cats, politics, children, religion, more cats, travel, word games and strange, almost unknowable things. He was born in Los Angeles of hardy native stock.